


A Morning Finding You

by TheSleepyOne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fanfiction, M/M, Mentions Of Past Near Death Experiences, Mentions of kidnapping, Mild Language, Near Death Experiences, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Suggestive Themes, Unbeta'd, imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27172529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleepyOne/pseuds/TheSleepyOne
Summary: Sherlock is planning something and it's making John worry. Especially since everyone but him was in on it.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 27





	A Morning Finding You

**Author's Note:**

> I was just in the mood for some Johnlock and although I have an angsty multi chapter fic in mind I realized that that’s a lot of work. And with most of my readers interested in Jack Kline fics and Eskel fics I don’t think they’ll be a following for my angst. This is sort of to test the waters and see who is interested. Unbeta’d as always. Also my first 5+1 fic. And probably the longest fic I have written. I regret everything.

Sherlock was up to something. John just knew it. He had been acting odd for the past week, more so than usual and it was making John worried. 

The first was when John came down to find the kitchen clean. No beakers or knives out of place. No heads or body parts in the fridge or cabinets. The kettle was even on the stove with hot water ready for morning tea. John’s favorite mug was just placed next to the stove as if it was supposed to be there every morning. 

John had to be honest, it freaked him out, but he was not one to say no to a cup of tea. Then as he stepped into the living room turned office he froze in place. It was clean. Like actually clean. Every article, book, loose paper, everything, was put into its rightful place. The chairs were in their place. His laptop sat closed at his desk. Hell, even the floor looked like it had been vacuumed recently. 

“Sherlock!” 

“Oh, deary. Sherlock’s gone out with Mycroft, I believe,” came Mrs. Hudson’s voice from the stairs. “Oh goodness,” she exclaimed at the sight of the flat. John could rule her out for the culprit that cleaned his flat. 

“That’s what I thought.” John had that look of dishevelment and disbelief. For once in the years that he lived in the 221 B Baker Street, he looked out of place. His hair stuck out on one side. He was in his robes, soft but it's been days since he washed it. And then there was the moustache he had grown out to spite Sherlock. 

“W-what happened?” Mrs. Hudson choked out, her hand going to her mouth. She took in the room like it was a crime scene. And in a way it was.

“I have no idea,” John shook his head, running his fingers over the laptop. “It’s been dusted. My bloody laptop has been dusted!” he laughed hysterically, taking a sip of tea only for it to be scalding hot. “Argh!” 

“Oh do be careful, dear,” Mrs. Hudson took the mug from his hand, afraid he would spill onto the clean surfaces. 

“Yes, yes. Did you say that Sherlock was with Mycroft?” 

“Well, not exactly, but there was a car waiting for him outside so I assumed.”

\-----

The second time was when John arrived at Mycroft’s ridiculously large estate. The man lived alone with a couple of maids but his house was large enough to fit a hundred people. John had seen it done when Mycroft was forced to host a gathering.

As he exited the cab that he called and paid for, he was greeted by a maid who looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place where he knew her from. And before he could ask she disappeared. “Odd,” John thought to himself as he entered the room the maid led him too. 

She seemed to do it with glea which didn’t seem like a trait that Mycroft would look for in hiring maids. Then again, the older Holmes brother probably had someone else to do that for him. The rich bloke. 

“Aw, Dr.Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure?” came Mycroft’s voice from behind his desk. His messy desk, John noticed. There were files and all sorts of papers askew. Books were open and there were at least three mugs of tea sitting on the desk. This picture of dishevelment was something out of Baker Street, not the British Government himself.

“Uh, um. I thought Sherlock was here?” John asked, unable to tear his eyes from the uncharacteristic disarray. 

“Why would that brother of mine be here?” Mycroft clasped his hands together like he was some devil that tricked John into selling his soul. 

“If not here then where is Sherlock?” 

“How should I know? It's not like I have a leash on him or anything,” came his smooth reply. He was hiding something as well, John knew it. Something that would explain the state of his desk, he bet. 

“No, but you do have your eyes on him.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Mycroft asked with a hint of something in his eyes that John couldn’t place.

“I’m onto you and Sherlock,” John exclaimed, walking through the door. The maid from before was waiting with a tray in her hand, more tea for Mycroft. “Have I met you before?” John asked before the thought could leave his mind. 

“I don’t know, have you, Dr.Watson?” She had that devilish look that Mycroft had. The same look in fact. Brunette and possessed. 

John looked down at her hands that were grasping the tray. They were calloused in all the wrong places. Her hands looked more like Sherlock’s than a maid’s. Like she constantly played an instrument rather than carrying trays for a sad excuse of an informant. 

“No...I don’t think so,” John admitted, leaving with a cold unsettling feeling. 

\-----

The third time should have rang all the alarms in John’s head, but to be fair he hadn’t had breakfast that morning. Just the barely touched tea that was sitting at his immaculate desk. Immaculate desk, he didn’t think he'd ever say that outloud. 

“Oh, John, good morning,” Molly greeted him in the morgue, her smile wavering. 

“Good morning, Molly. Has Sherlock been by?” he got straight to the point. 

“Um, I-I haven’t seen him in days,” she hesitated, fidgeting with something at her station. 

“Days? We were in here the day before last,” John exclaimed, looking closely at Molly. She looked rather fine, her hair was in a ponytail, she was wearing lipstick, her desk was clean as a specialist registrar's would be, her blouse was ironed. There didn’t seem to be anything out of place, but for her voice. 

“Um, well, what I meant was I haven’t seen him in a while. Recently...it was an exaggeration, really,” Molly explained, her eyes darting around the room. 

“Well do you know where he could be?” 

“Have you tried Scotland Yard?” Molly asked though she looked like she regretted speaking. She said too much, she went off script and her mind was trying to make up for it. “O-or have you talked to his brother? Mycroft right? The tall one in parliament?” she stumbled, rereading the lines in her head. 

“Yeah, but something seemed off about him.” Molly froze in her place beside her station, her eyes were blown wide and she stared down at her hands like they were the most interesting thing. 

“I’ll try again though, it was like he was hiding something.” John neared Molly, his slight height advantage making itself known. “Do you know what he could be hiding?” 

Molly averted her gaze from his, “N-no idea.” John nodded, leaving the morgue when the thought popped into his mind. She was wearing lipstick. 

\-----

The fourth was at Scotland Yard. He was planning on going anyways but Molly’s apprehensiveness just gave him a gut feeling that this was where his questions would be answered. Hopefully. Lestrade was usually in the same boat as he was. 

“John!”

“Greg, good to see you. Do you-” 

“Busy.”

“I’m sorry what?” John’s confusion was crystal clear on his face. What did the detective inspector mean by busy?

“I’m busy,” Greg stated like that explained everything. 

“Yes, but this is important.” 

The phone on Greg’s desk dinged in a notification. “Can’t right now,” he reached for the phone on his desk like it was his life force. “My wife wants me home early,” he checked his phone. 

“You aren’t married.” 

“Yeah, but that was yesterday.” He scrolled through his phone, texting whoever was ever on the other side something frantic. 

“You can’t just marry someone in a day!” John exclaimed, throwing his hands up. The other detectives and desk jockeys looked up from their computers to see what the commotion was. One of them being Donovan who looked like she hadn’t slept in days. 

“He can,” Donovan spoke with authority. She turned to Greg, “And I expect you home by five.” With that she left the building with her coat thrown over her shoulder.

“You and Donovan?! Since when?” 

“Like I said, yesterday. And really John, I have to get to work.” 

\-----

The fifth time was during work, seeing as how running around London had caused him to be two hours late. The woman at the front desk, Diana? Kira? Ariebella? Sydney? Whatever her name was, was very displeased with his tardiness. 

“You’re late,” she stated bitterly. 

“I know, I know. I got caught up with errands.” She used to sound so nice, or was that Margot? He wasn’t sure and with the morning he had, he couldn’t be bothered to look into it. 

“Errands, errands. It's always errands with you. Well whatever you were doing that was more important than your job, you have sixteen patients waiting.”

“Sixteen?!” John gasped, closing his eyes and massaging his temples. He really didn’t want to work today. “Fine, bring them in.” 

“If you were actually here on time you would have known that they’re already in there. Go do your job, Dr. Watson.” The clank and clinks of her nails on the keyboard could be heard on his way to his office. It was heaven to his migraine.

“Thanks, Alana,” John called behind him.

“It's Clementine, idiot,” she retorted with a sneer he didn’t see but could easily imagine. 

“Of course, Clementine, how could I forget,” John mumbled as he closed the door behind him. Suppressing a groan he turned on his heel to face his first out of sixteen patients. 

“Good afternoon, Dr.” said his patient, an old woman who was on the brink of death, agewise. 

“Good afternoon, miss…?” 

“Holmes,” came her assertive reply. 

“Holmes...you wouldn’t have been related to Sherlock by any chance? Would you?” John asked, never really ever having the chance to meet the rest of his flat mate’s family. What with one of them kidnapping him and the other wanting him dead.

“What relations do you have to him?” Her question would’ve been rude if he wasn’t already expecting it. Sherlock, Mycroft, and Eurus had to get their personality from somewhere. 

“I’m his friend and flat mate. Believe it or not we solve cases together,” he explained, taking a seat across from her. 

“You must be John Hamish Watson then. I am Sherlock’s aunt.” John winced at his full name. Sherlock must’ve told her. How much did Sherlock’s family know about him? Enough to know his full name apparently. All that Harry knew was that he was alive and living in London.

“Well it's a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure would be all yours for I am here for a reason,” Sherlock’s aunt said briskly. 

“Of course, how are you feeling?”

\-----

The sixth and final time was after work. John got through all sixteen patients and an extra five patients that came later in the day. This made it so he left the office, thirty minutes after his shift. Clementine wasn’t even at the front desk anymore. She just left him to close up on his own, which on any other day he wouldn’t have mind but his migraine had not lightened. 

“Sherlock just kill me now,” John moaned, slipping his keys back into his pocket. With everything going on he was surprised he remembered to grab the damn thing before leaving the flat. 

“He can be unpleasant but he’ll never kill you,” said Mrs. Hudson from her car. The one she used only in emergencies. 

“Mrs. Hudson is everything okay? What are you doing here?” He ran up to her car, checking her for any injuries or bruises or otherwise. 

“Oh stop that, I’m perfectly fine. I’m here to get you.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why?” John raised his eyebrows, his mouth ajar. 

“Why? Because I want to, of course,” she smiled, gesturing with her head for him to ride in the passenger’s seat.

“I won’t say no to a free side from you,” John pulled the door shut as he sat down, setting his bag on the floor and buckling his seat before realizing they weren’t going to Baker Street. “Um, Mrs.Hudson?” 

“Yes, dear?”

“Where are we going?” 

“You’ll know in a moment.” 

A moment passed and they were getting closer and closer towards central London. “I really don’t know where we’re going.” 

“Oh be patient, we’re almost there.”

“And where exactly is there?”

“You will see.”

John would really much not like to see. He wanted to know, now. Today was odd already, he really wasn’t in the mood to be kidnapped by his landlady, or held for ransom. Mrs. Hudson grabbing her purse only to see it empty did not reassure him on the latter. 

“Here we are, dear.” By here she meant a restaurant far too expensive for his paycheck. He could already feel his wallet groaning in his pocket from the small bites of food on large plates that were advertised.

“I’m not sure-” But she had pushed him out of the car and sped off. With his bag for that matter. All he had on him now were the clothes on his back, his wallet and keys. He’d been worse off honestly but now he wasn’t sure where he was. 

“Fuck.” John looked around, hoping to find a cab to take him home when he spotted some very distinctive brunette curls. “Sherlock,” he groaned, having had looked for the man and finding the man brought very different emotions out of the doctor.

“Where the hell have you been?” John yelled to the taller man, not caring that he was causing a scene. 

“I had errands to run,” Sherlock answered, stoic and baritone. 

“Errands to run!? I have been looking for you all morning. You made me late to work. Again!” John threw his hands in the air, stomping his foot. He was drawing an audience and there were even some who brought their phones out, expecting a show. 

“I didn’t make you do anything. You did that of your own free will,” Sherlock smirked, smug as he came to the conclusion, “Were you worried about me?”

“Of course I was. Everyone was acting as if they were being held captive. The flat was clean, as in spotless, Mycroft was an utter mess, his maid wants to kill me, Molly was wearing lipstick, Greg’s apparently married to Donovan, I met your aunt of all people at work, and then Mrs. Hudson practically kidnapped me! What the bloody hell is going on, Sherlock.” 

“I asked them to distract you, not make you go insane,” Sherlock grinned, looking down at him through his ridiculously long eyelashes. He was in an equally ridiculous get up, a three piece suit with a velvet blazer that looked straight out of Mycroft's wardrobe. 

“Well they did a great job of that, I feel like my head is splitting in two,” John shook his head, not wanting to believe all of this was done by Sherlock but he shouldn’t have been surprised. This was exactly something the lunatic would do. He faked his own death for two bleeding years, distracting John for the morning was nothing to the detective consultant. 

“I’ll order you a drink then,” Sherlock began walking into the restaurant like he owned the place. Did he? No, no, John didn’t want to know. 

“You could’ve just said you wanted to eat out,” John grumbled, feeling underdressed compared to the other consumers. 

“Well Mrs. Hudson said I should make it special. And Mycroft recommended the restaurant so you should really be blaming them.” Sherlock pulled out a seat at a table set for two and gestured for John to sit. He did so reluctantly, feeling out of place. Sherlock took the seat opposite. “Distracting you was my idea, if you were wondering.”

“Of course it was.” 

Sherlocked beamed, trying to hide his chuckle. “Yes, well I couldn’t have you following me while I got everything ready.” 

“So are you going to explain what all of this is for?” John made a gesture to indicate everything around them. If the gesture happened to look like his middle finger then they could kindly fuck off.

“Our anniversary.”

John raised an eyebrow in question, wishing he shaved his spite-stache earlier. “I’m not gay, Sherlock.” 

The mentioned man rolled his eyes but relented, “Of course, of course, but what I meant was the anniversary of our first meeting.” 

“You did all of this for an anniversary for some day?” John asked, thanking the waitress who handed him the menu. She looked familiar as well, brunette and with a glaze over her eyes.

“It wasn’t just some day or else Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t have parted it on her calendar,” Sherlock explained, thanking the brunette waitress. She turned to face John as she brought over the drinks and that was when it clinked. 

“Eurus!” John exclaimed, pointing to the waitress who was also Mycroft’s maid. 

“Happy anniversary, John,” she congratulated him. 

“She helped too.”

“I more than helped, I made sure everyone was in their place.” 

“You bloody idiot, you really went all out,” John looked at Sherlock in utter disbelief. What did he get himself into when he decided he loved this man. Wait, what? Since when did that thought come into his mind? Since when did he love Sherlock? 

“Anything for you, John.”

“I’ll just leave now, seeing as I’m no longer needed. I’ll bring condoms with your dessert.”


End file.
